LXI.

She look’d up wildly; there were anxious eyes Waiting that look--sad eyes of troubled thought, Alvar’s--Theresa’s! Did her childhood rise, With all its pure and home-affections fraught, In the brief glance? She clasp’d her hands--the strife Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, Within her woman’s breast so deeply wrought, It seem’d as if a reed so slight and weak _Must_, in the rending storm not quiver only--break!